Tis the Season
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: Jane gets the flu over Christmas break.


**Title:** ' _Tis the Season_ (1/1)

 **Universe:** _Blindspot,_ early season 1

 **Rating:** PG

 **Pairing:** Jane Doe/Kurt Weller

 **Summary:** Jane gets the flu over Christmas break.

 **A/N** : For my _Blindspot_ secret santa badwolfinwinterfell! Happy holidays to you, Bekah! I have tried my hand at some J/K fluff in your honor, and I hope it proves satisfactory! (This fic is slightly Christmas-themed, I hope you don't mind.) PS: outforawalk-bitch might also enjoy this, as her prompt list sparked my imagination. :)

x x x

She's been throwing up since six AM, and she doesn't know how it happened. One second she was asleep and everything was fine, the next second she her entire body was revolting against her-she was doused in sweat and her head felt like it was made of lead and her ears were ringing and her stomach was heaving up into her throat-

Looking back, Jane can't quite get over how lucky she was to make it to the bathroom before she lost what little control she had and spilled her guts. She only missed the toilet a little bit that first time.

And now, six hours later, she still hasn't moved from it. (Though her aim has much improved.) She's hugging it like an anchor, like a stress-reliever, like a dying loved one. She can't let go. Every time she thinks she's starting to feel close enough to normal to get up, her stomach heaves again, or her head swims, and she's back to throwing up in the bowl again.

Every time the sickness subsides, and her mind clears enough for her to focus on something besides how terrible she feels, Jane wonders where in the world this disease came from. She hasn't yet gotten sick since starting her new life, and so she can't even begin to guess what this is, or gauge how bad it is on the same scale of illness that she knows everyone else uses.

Patterson and Reade have both come in with colds before, but all they did was sneeze and cough and wipe their noses. Unless this is some really bad form of a cold, she thinks she must have something else. Something worse.

One time, while they were staking out a suspect near a Greek restaurant downtown, Tasha told a horrible story about getting food poisoning from Greek take-out she had the other year. She said she threw up for over twenty-four hours straight, and that she couldn't eat anything except crackers and water for over three days afterwards. She said she felt nauseous even looking at Greek food, and she'd made Jane keep the windows in the car rolled up because she swore that if she even smelled what the restaurant was cooking, she'd barf all over the place.

Jane thinks that that's probably what she has, though she can't think of anything she's eaten in the last day or two that's turned her stomach so badly. Tasha never mentioned how food poisoning works-do you start throwing up the moment you swallow the food? Or after you digest it? And once you get it all out of your system, do you feel better? Or will she always feel nauseous around whatever food she ate that did this, the way Tasha does with Greek food?

 _She never mentioned the hot-cold thing, though,_ Jane thinks to herself, pressing her head against the cold back of the toilet. Despite all the other gross details Tasha went into while they were waiting for their suspect to show, she never talked about feeling burning hot one minute and freezing cold the next. Jane's been feeling severely overheated since she made it to the bathroom, but when she woke up, she'd been freezing, despite having spent the night sweating through her pajamas and her sheets.

She had tried changing, earlier, but she felt too weak and dizzy just standing up, let alone taking on and off clothes, to trust herself to get the job done properly. So she's still sitting here, in her disgusting, smelly clothes, curled up in the corner of the bathroom with her head a convenient two inches from the toilet bowl, should her stomach take another turn for the worst again.

She's been trying to time herself, to figure out how often her body's rioting against her, but it's hard. She's been feeling a little delirious these last few times, a little light-headed even though she's still sitting, and hardly moving, and so she isn't sure if her count is off or not.

On the plus side, she does know what day it is: Thursday. So her mind isn't totally lost.

But on the other hand, she can't remember why she's not at work. She's always at work on Thursdays. She got off for today, she remembers that, but she can't remember why. It's some sort of national holiday, she thinks. But she's too sleepy to remember which one, or care very much. What do holidays matter to a woman who has no idea of their significance, who has no family to spend them with?

Nonetheless, she's grateful that she's on break from work, because she can't imagine going into the Bureau like this. Even worse, she can't imagine having to tell the team that she _can't_ come in, just because she can't keep her own body under control long enough to get out the door.

She thinks about calling Tasha for advice on how to get better, because she knows she has to be back at work eventually, but her phone's in the other room, on her bedside table, and she doesn't trust herself not to throw up between here and there. The last thing she wants to do, on top of all of this, is to have to clean up her own vomit from the floor. Her bedroom is carpeted and she can't even begin to imagine how disgusting and time-consuming that clean-up project would be.

Perhaps even just the thought of such a mess turns her stomach, because within seconds, she's dry-heaving into the toilet again, arms wrapped around her aching ribs, eyes squeezing out tears she can't control because it hurts _so much,_ and despite all the beatings she's taken in the past few months in the field, she's never had one this bad. She's never had her own body betray her, turn on her, attack her, like this. She feels like her stomach is trying to rip apart her lungs and shatter her ribs, and for minutes after she finishes heaving, all she can do is try to breathe through the pain in her abdomen, through the ringing in her ears, through the pounding in her own head, and through the heaving in her beleaguered lungs. She leans against the toilet, the floor, the wall, trying to find some position through which she can reach relief, but it's beyond her at this point. There's no comfort to be had, and she succumbs to the pain and the soreness, closing down her mind as she tries to return to whatever vestiges of normal she can grasp at.

When she surfaces, her breath regular again, her ribs only throbbing if she takes too-big breaths, she realizes the pounding in her head has spread-out of her body and into her house. It takes a second for her to realize-there's someone banging on her door. Instinctively, she leans away from the noise, groaning at the volume, and the intrusion. Who the hell is outside her house at noon on a Thursday? No one ever comes to her door except her security detail, and what would they want? They hardly ever talk to her except to say "Goodnight, ma'am" or "Good morning, ma'am." What do they have to say for themselves now, when she can't even stand up, let alone make it all the way downstairs to answer the door?

"What is it?" she shouts from the bathroom, her voice so hoarse that it cracks when she yells. "What do you want?"

"Jane?"

 _Oh, no,_ she thinks, immediately recognizing the deep voice, calling up to her in audible confusion and concern. It's Weller.

She presses her head against the porcelain of the toilet, willing him away with a low moan. She doubts she can hear it, but it's the most she can muster at this point. Out of _all_ the people that might stop by and see her in this state, he is the worst possible option. She would rather have Assistant Director Mayfair here, staring down at her in disapproval with her arms crossed, than Weller. Anyone but Weller.

"Go away," she starts to say, but her voice is a whisper hardly loud enough for herself to hear. And even if he could hear, she doubt he'd heed it; she can hear the door opening downstairs (damn him for being allowed to have his own key to her place), and then his feet are on the stairs, climbing them quickly, and before she can even raise her head, or her voice to speak, he's at the top of the steps, coming down the hallway towards her.

"Jane, where have you been? What are you doing?" he calls from what she knows can't be more than feet away. His steps are louder now, quicker, as they get closer. "I've been knocking on your door for the last five minutes; you didn't even come downstairs-"

 _Oh, right, because I don't have anything better to do than run to the door to meet you,_ she thinks acidically, ignoring the fact, really, she usually _doesn't_ have anything better to do on her days off. Yet another drawback of the tattooed amnesiac: she has no friends, no family, no plans or acquaintances except what the FBI chooses to give her.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, but I've been a little preoccupied, Weller, I'm-"

And she isn't sure if it's the sickness, or the fear of him seeing her so weak like this, but that's all she can get out before her stomach heaves again, betraying her in the worst way in front of the worst possible audience. There's nothing left in her system by this point, so all that comes up is spit and bile, but it tears through her insides as violently as a full stomach would, burning her throat and making her lungs gasp for air as she forces out the acidic nothingness. She feels like someone's been spending the morning punching her ribs, and twisting her stomach and lungs between iron hands, and she's only making it worse every time she retches.

"Oh, Jane…"

"Go away," she mutters hoarsely, spitting into the bowl, so she doesn't have to see what she knows will be a look of pity on his face. "I'm diseased; you shouldn't be here." She rests her head against the seat, catching her breath as she adds, "I'm pretty sure I have food poisoning."

"Food poisoning?" He frowns at her as he takes a couple steps inside the bathroom. "What did you eat? Patterson said you didn't have any allergies. Was something undercooked?"

"I don't know," she groans, shutting her eyes as she leans against the toilet. "I just know that I feel horrible and I can't stop throwing up. I've been throwing up all day. And I feel so hot, even though I was freezing before, and-"

Weller laughs a little, and she feels like punching him in the face. But he's too tall, standing there in front of her, and the best she could manage to get was his ankle. "It's not food poisoning, Jane," he tells her. "It's the flu. Comes every year and wreaks havoc." He bends down in front of her, and touches her forehead with the back of his hand. When he pulls away, the smile is gone and he's frowning again, muttering something about temperature that Jane doesn't care about right now because-

"Every _year?_ You mean I'm going to get this _again_? Are you fucking kidding me, Weller?"

His eyes widen in surprise for a second, but then he laughs again, louder than before, as he grins down at her, sprawled out on the bathroom floor.

Jane spits in the bowl, thinking she'd very much rather spit in his face. "What?" she snarls, wiping her mouth with what remains of her once-full roll of toilet paper as she turns back to look up at him. "Is this funny to you? Is that why you're here? Because it's _hilarious_ to see me puking on the floor?"

"No, no." He shakes his head, but he's still smiling. "It's just that I've never heard you curse before, is all." His blues eyes light up with mirth. "I'm wondering where you learned that swear word."

She looks up, catching his eye, and can't help but smile briefly as she reminds him, "I _do_ live in New York City, remember? 'Fuck you' is like 'Good morning' to some of my neighbors."

Weller chuckles. "Yeah, mine too. But," he adds, "it shouldn't be so bad next time, the flu. First time's always the worst. Didn't you get a flu shot this year?"

Jane shakes her head. "Why? Would that have helped?"

"Probably, yeah." Weller frowns. "Borden should've told you about that."

Jane groans at the mention of her psychiatrist, wrapping her arms tighter around her stomach. "I bet he didn't tell me on purpose. He wants me to suffer. I'm not being a good enough amnesia guinea pig patient, and this is his revenge, making me puke my guts up so I'll puke my feelings up next time I see him."

Weller smiles a little at that. "I highly doubt that's the reason, Jane. It probably just slipped his mind; you're not his only patient, you know."

"No, that _is_ the reason…" She presses her face against the cool side of the toilet again, wishing she had a room full of ice to lie on top of instead. She feels so hot she feels like her skin's going to burn off. "It _is_ my fault. I haven't been sharing enough. Haven't been having enough memories. Haven't broken down sobbing in a session yet. He's getting impatient at my lack of progress and this is his way of getting back at me. I bet he thinks that if he can break me down physically, it'll break me down emotionally."

Though he tries to stifle it, Jane still catches a brief snort as Weller laughs.

" _What_?" Jane snaps. She is sick of him laughing at her. Next time she feels the urge to throw up, she decides, she's going to aim it at him. See if he's laughing then.

"I've never seen you be so melodramatic before, is all." He pauses a second, thinking. "Never ever even heard you complain about anything, actually, now that I think about it." He smiles. "It's kind of a relief, to be honest-you're just like the rest of us."

Jane scowls. "I might've had my memory wiped, but I'm not an alien, Weller."

"Ah, that remains to be seen." He smiles a little, telling her he's joking, but she can't find the will to care. She just wants to fall asleep, to pass out, and skip this whole flu thing. Do people really go through this every year? How do they live their lives not dreading its eventual return?

"C'mere," Weller calls, bending down suddenly and reaching out to her. "Let's get you cleaned up a bit. Have you showered yet today? Showers always make me feel better when I'm sick."

"Do I look like I've showered?" Jane snaps, thinking of the sweat-drenched tanktop and shorts she put on last night that she's still wearing; thinking of the mass of sweaty, tangled hair atop her head; thinking of the clamminess in her hands, across her skin; thinking of the fact that Weller's here, seeing her look absolutely disgusting, and that there's really only one way to fix it. So she takes his hands, and allows him to pull her to her feet. Because a shower does sound good. And a change of clothes. And a miracle cure, too.

Weller lifts her up with ease, drawing her right to her feet, but her head rushes as if he'd thrown her up miles into the air. She's standing for hardly a second- _God,_ she thinks, _it's been hours since I've stood on my own two feet_ -before her mind leaves her and her senses shut down, and then she's falling, just for a moment, just before everything disappears-

"Jane… Jane, hey… Come on, Jane…"

Weller's voice comes to her at first as if from very far away, and then close. Very close. Too close. When she draws in a breath, she can smell him-warm and clean and something that's just _him_ -and she opens her eyes, finding his face just inches from hers. Feeling his arms wrapped tight around her.

 _Is he going to kiss me?_ is the first thought that enters her muddled brain, setting her heart beating fast, much too fast, as she stares up at him while he stares down at her. She can see that old concern in his eyes, sharper and more present than she's seen it in a while, and she feels her throat stick, closing around whatever words she might've been able to say.

"Jane…"

She can feel her stomach turn, but not in nausea, as he places his hand against her cheek, letting it linger there for a moment. She can't help it; her eyes fall closed, and she leans towards him-

"Jane, hey, keep your eyes open, okay? Look at me, please."

His voice is urgent now, and his hand has moved to her forehead, and she frowns in confusion at it all, opening her eyes to look up at him. "What…?" she starts to ask.

"You fainted," he explains. "You passed out when I picked you up, but I managed to catch you and-"

 _Oh._ She can feel her cheeks heat in embarrassment, and she looks down. Her passing out is a much more logical explanation for why he's so close to her, why he's holding her, than the idea that he might actually want her.

"I'm sorry," he goes on, a frown bringing down his whole face. "I didn't think about how long you'd probably been down there when I pulled you up. I just wanted to help…" He trails off with a grimace as his eyes roam over her anxiously. "Have you had anything to eat today, Jane? Anything to drink?"

"No…" She shakes her head weakly, the world coming back both too slow and too fast as she does so. "I haven't had... anything. I've been too busy throwing up all day, or hadn't you noticed, Weller?" She sees his eyes widen a little at her abrupt change in tone, and she mentally slaps herself, knowing he doesn't deserve ridicule from her. He deserves nothing but respect from her, and thankfulness, for all he's done for her. It's her own fault she's been finding herself wanting more recently…

"Why would I be eating or drinking anything?" she asks finally, taking care to soften her tone. "It'll just come back up."

He sighs heavily, shaking his head as he lets her down gently, back onto the floor. "You need to drink and eat a little to keep yourself going," he replies. "Your system's been purging all day, so that means you have nothing in there-no nutrients, no electrolytes, no nothing-nothing to keep you going," he adds, seeing the confusion on her face. "You've gotta keep some bit of strength up so the flu doesn't take everything. Otherwise you'll be falling to the floor like you just did with every step you take." He starts to get to his feet again. "Look, just stay here, and I'll bring you some water."

Even the thought of it makes her queasy again. "No, Kurt, don't, I'll just throw it back up-"

"The water will help, trust me," he interrupts. "Even if you keep throwing up, you need to try drinking some. And soon enough, your fever will break and you'll feel a lot better, I promise. Then you'll want to eat, and then you'll know you're starting to get back to normal."

"I don't want to do anything except lie on the floor and pass out again. I felt better when I couldn't feel anything."

Kurt smiles a little. "I understand, Jane, trust me, and while the floor might feel good now, it won't tomorrow." He taps the hard tiles of her bathroom with his foot. "This surface is not conducive to sleeping comfortably."

She groans, pressing her head back against the wall. "Maybe I can just die instead, then. If I'm dead, it won't matter how I feel tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Everything's better when you're dead. But come on," he calls. "Just stay alive long enough to drink a little water, and then we'll have you lie down and try to sleep this off."

Jane shakes her head at the mention of sleep, though it does sound wonderful to be unconscious. "My bed's a mess," she mutters. "The sheets are all sweaty from the fever-"

"I'll deal with the sheets," Kurt interrupts, holding out a calming hand. "Just rest here for a second, okay?"

She does as he asks, mostly because she isn't capable of doing much else. As she waits for him to return with the water, she closes her eyes, resting against the wall. That faint did something good, she thinks. Now her dominant emotion is no longer nausea but exhaustion. It doesn't feel great, but it feels better than puking.

She thinks she's almost asleep by the time he walks back in, a light knock announcing his arrival. She smiles a little at that-why bother with the courtesy; he's basically commandeered her home? But she appreciates it nonetheless.

"Yeah?" she mumbles, forcing her eyes open with more than a little effort.

Kurt appears before her, a glass of ice water in one hand, and a bundle of her navy sheets in the other, asking where her washer is.

She groans weakly at the sight of him. "No, come on. Don't do my laundry, Kurt. Stop it. I can take care of myself."

"Jane, you can barely hold your head up. Just sit there while I wash your things and make your bed, okay? It'll take five minutes. Where are your extra sheets?"

Though she briefly entertains the idea of not telling him, she knows he'll just tear apart her house looking anyway. Better to skip to the end. "Closet," she answers. "In the hall. And the washer's downstairs, off the kitchen."

He smiles, knowing as much as she does that he's won. "Thank you," he replies graciously. He holds out the glass of water to her. "Now take this, and drink it slow. Just a couple sips here and there, okay? Don't go chugging it."

"Like I would," Jane mutters, glaring down at the glass as if it were poison.

Kurt hefts the sheets more securely in both arms as he straightens up. As he heads to the door, he calls out over his shoulder, "A little water won't kill you, Jane. And neither will the flu," he adds, "not in this century, at least."

She opens her mouth to reply, but he's out of the room and headed downstairs with her laundry before she can say anything. She wants to tell him to stop again, but she knows he won't, so she sips at the water instead, inching towards the toilet as she does so in case it immediately comes back up. To her surprise and relief, it stays down. And it tastes good on her parched throat. She fishes out a piece of ice from the glass and sucks on it, relishing in the frozen taste. She still feels overwarm, though not as boiling hot as before.

When Kurt reappears a few minutes later, he looks genuinely pleased that she's made some progress on the glass of water. He says as much just before he takes it away and sets it on the sink, muttering something about her always wanting to do everything too much too fast. She doesn't think that's very fair, but her mind has moved past water at this point. The drink cleared her head, and reminded her that better things might be available.

"Isn't there some sort of medicine you can give me to make this go away? You know, to lessen the symptoms? Stop the puking?"

Kurt shakes his head, as he takes utmost care in lifting her to her feet again, very slowly this time. "With the flu, it's usually best to let it just run its course. Besides, any medicine I try to give you will likely just come back up in another hour or two."

Jane's heart falls as her stomach lurches a little again. That was not the answer she'd been hoping for. "Well, how long will that take for the flu to run its course?"

"A week or two," Kurt answers, and he has the good sense to look contrite about it as he helps her to the door and down the hall to her room. "But the worst symptoms should pass in a day or two, so don't worry," he adds quickly. "The throwing up, the fever, the dizziness… It shouldn't be much longer, Jane."

"Hm," she murmurs, not quite sure if she should believe him. He sounds genuine, but then again, he always sounds genuine when he talks to her. She doesn't say anything else as she reaches the bed, but she grasps onto his hand gratefully as she climbs in, happy to have something to counterbalance her. Happy that it's him.

Once she's settled herself, pushing off one of the thicker blankets but pulling the sheet and the thinner blanket close to her chin, Kurt excuses himself from the room. She watches him go, wondering how inappropriate it would be to call him back. She'd wanted him to leave, before, but the longer he's stayed the more she's realized that she likes him here, wants him here. She _needs_ him here-she probably never would've gotten off that bathroom floor without him.

She's about to open her mouth and attempt to call out to him when he appears in the doorway again, his hands full once more: a box of tissues tucked under his arm, her glass of ice water in one hand, and one of her trash cans from downstairs in the other. She watches in silence as he brings his collection over and makes a little shrine around her, setting the water on her bedside table, the tissues by her pillow, and the trash can at the edge of her bed. She doesn't know what to say. No one's ever taken care of her before, let alone like this.

She knows she should say thank you-should say more than that-but she can't find the words. She hasn't been able to find the words all day, not since the minute he showed up, and she still can't find them now, not after he's saved her from falling to the floor, and made her bed, and helped her to it…

It's only after he sits down a few feet from her bed, having brought a chair from downstairs up to her room to watch over her, that she finds her voice.

"Kurt?"

His name comes out hoarse, though, she thinks, not totally because she's spent the day getting her throat ripped out by stomach acid.

"Yeah, Jane?"

"Is this…" She bites her lip, pulling the sheet closer, as if it were something to hide behind. "Do people normally do this?"

"What, get the flu?" He smiles, "Yeah, Jane, it's a seasonal thing. I told you, remember? Usually people get flu shots to ward it off."

"No, I meant-" She can feel her skin heat a little more. But she wants to know. "I meant, do people usually take care of each other like this? You know, ah, friends?"

He watches her carefully, his blue eyes boring into hers, and she wonders suddenly if she's taken this too far. Whatever is going on between them… Has she just ruined it by trying to put a name to it?

"No," he answers quietly, breaking their eye contact as he looks down. "Usually, it's… Usually only family members take care of each other like this."

She looks away too, and doesn't even bother to ask if he sees her as family. She doesn't want to know. She can still remember what he said about her-about _Taylor_ -all those weeks ago, and how he looked at her when he said it: _You spent a lot of time with me and my family. You were basically part of our family._ It's been weeks, and yet she still hasn't found a way to tell him that with every day that passes, she feels less and less like Taylor instead of _more_ like her.

She's starting to feel more like herself-whoever that is. And she doesn't want to think about how coming into herself might mean sacrificing whatever she might have with Kurt. She likes to think that she's more than Taylor to him. But sometimes he looks at her, and he doesn't look away, and she doesn't know what it is that he's seeing in her anymore.

She wants a family, of course. She would love to be part of his-a part of the love and familiarity that she's seen him and his sister and his nephew share together-but not if it means she has to be Taylor. She couldn't even stomach a single dinner with them as Taylor; she can't imagine a lifetime.

"Why don't you go home?" she suggests quietly. "To your, you know, your actual family." _I'm not family,_ she wants to tell him. _You don't have to be here._ But she can't make the words come out.

From his chair just a few feet away from her, Kurt shakes his head. "I don't really trust you alone right now."

"You don't have to babysit me, Kurt."

"Actually, I kind of do. What if you try to go downstairs to get something and you faint and fall down the steps?"

Despite her fall earlier, Jane can't help but roll her eyes. He's blowing things out of proportion. "Just tell my detail to come in and watch over me if you're so worried. You should go home."

"Their job isn't to nurse you back to health, Jane."

"Well, it isn't your job, either," Jane snaps back before she can help herself. She stares at him, suddenly remembering his entrance earlier. He'd just broken into her house, no explanation, no nothing. "Why are you here anyway?" she demands. "Why'd you show up in the first place?"

He surprises her by avoiding her eye. "Well, it's… It's the holidays," he mutters. "I figured I'd visit, spend some time with you."

Stupidly, Jane can feel her heart beat a little faster. _Spend time with_ me _?_ "Why?" she blurts.

He shrugs. "It's Christmas Eve. No one should be alone around Christmas." He frowns then, adding a little guiltily, "I-I have to spend all of tomorrow with my family, but I wanted to spend some time with you, if I could. If you… didn't have any plans."

"I don't have any plans." She sighs, laughing a little, "Well, I guess my plans now are to throw up for next day or two, right?"

Kurt doesn't laugh. Instead, his eyes tighten on her in concern. "I'm really sorry, Jane. It sucks to be sick on the holidays."

"It's fine," she murmurs, closing her eyes as she rests against the mattress. It feels very comfortable all of the sudden. "It's not like I had any expectations."

"That's why I wanted to be here." Kurt says the words very softly, and for a second before she opens her eyes, she wonders if she's even supposed to be able to hear him. But he's looking right at her as he continues: "First Christmases are important, Jane. Usually as kids, we don't remember them, but you-you're unique. You get to experience everything for the first time, _and_ really remember it…" He pauses a moment, and she watches him, seeing a myriad of emotions play across his face. Finally, he draws in a breath, leans a little closer to her in his chair, and admits, "There's, um, there's another reason why I came here, actually."

"Yes?"

The word is like a squeak coming out of her mouth, but she doesn't care. All that matters is what he says next. What he does.

"Besides spending some time with you, I also, um-" he clears his throat a little bit "-I wanted to give you your first Christmas present. If-if it _is_ your first," he adds, his eyes flying to hers nervously.

She can't help but smile. She swears she can see his cheeks pink a bit beneath the scruff of his beard, and while she's sure she's probably doing the same, for once she doesn't care. "You're the first," she confirms.

He looks relieved at that. "Well-good." He stares at her for a moment, and then, seeming to come back to himself, he jumps to his feet and rummages through the briefcase hanging on the back of the chair, something she must've been too sick earlier to notice.

When he turns around to face her, he's holding a small, square box in his hand, just a few inches in diameter. It's wrapped a little clumsily in red-and-green decorative paper, and she almost asks if he had Sawyer wrap this for her, before she remembers that this is _Kurt's_ gift to her, and likely he wrapped it himself. She has to bite her lip so she won't laugh. And then once she opens it, she has to bite her lip so she won't cry.

"I, um, I don't know if you like jewelry, or what kind you like if you do. I've never seen you wear any, but I usually see you and work, so I wasn't sure-" He breaks off, drawing in a quick breath. "Look, if you don't like it, you don't have to wear it. But I thought it might be nice if you had something that was… was just for you."

Jane nods along, not trusting herself to speak as she stares down at the contents of the small box. Nestled within a little square of protective cotton is a necklace, with a single gold charm, no bigger than a dime, resting on the chain. Etched onto the small golden disc is a single word. A name.

 _Jane._

She tries to open her mouth to say something, anything, but no words will come out. She tries again and again, but-nothing. She bites the inside of her cheek hard, because he's seen her cry too many times enough as it is, and there's no reason to cry over this. No reason to cry over something that makes you so happy.

"If you don't like it," Kurt tries again, lingering nervously by her side, "I can probably take it back and-"

"No, don't take it back," she whispers, unable to take her eyes off the necklace. "I love it."

"Oh, good." He sounds audibly relieved.

She smiles to herself. Did he actually think she wouldn't appreciate _any_ gift he might think to give her, let alone something so wonderful as this? It is absolutely perfect.

She's about to thank him again when she realizes the point of gifts: you're supposed to exchange them. Feeling her heart fall a little, she ducks her head in chagrin. "I… I didn't get you a present, though," she whispers, looking away, not trusting her guilt to betray her if she looks him in the face. "I didn't even think-I didn't realize-I'm so sorry, Kurt-"

"No, that's okay," he says. A second later, she can hear him chuckle as he adds, "Trust me, seeing you knocked on your ass by a little stomach virus is more than enough of a present."

She narrows her eyes at him. "Come over here and say that again so I can hit you."

"Please, like you can do any damage with those noodle arms."

"You wanna find out?"

He laughs. "No, not really."

She meets his eye with a smile before looking back down at the necklace nestled in the little box. "It's beautiful," she whispers, running the tips of her fingers over the little etching that spells her name. "It's really beautiful."

"Do you want me to help you put it on?"

She looks up, surprised at the suggestion, but Kurt's already at her bedside, and she figures, why not?

"Sure," she answers, passing the box to him as she pushes herself up into a sitting position. She lifts her hair up a little so he see the clasp as he fastens it together around her neck. Once he finishes, she looks down and touches the small charm against her chest, feeling happiness flood her again. Without a thought, she reaches out for Kurt's hand, grabbing it tight as he starts to walk away.

"Thank you," she tells him, tearing her eyes away from his gift to look into his eyes. "Really. Thank you for this. It was really thoughtful."

He is sheepish again before her, shrugging off the praise, but she can tell he's pleased at her reaction. As she watches him, not yet ready to let go of his hand, she wonders how long ago he found this, when he bought it. How long as he been planning on making this Christmas memorable for her?

"It was no trouble," he says finally, gently stepping away and letting their hands fall apart. She watches him as he retreats back to his chair, not realizing until he sits back down how happy she is that he hadn't made a beeline for the door, as she suggested so many times earlier. It's nice to have someone here with her, and it's doubly nice that it's him.

"You should get some rest," he reminds her quietly from his chair, and it's only then that Jane remembers the initial reason for them coming to this room in the first place. She smiles a little, nodding in agreement as she lets her eyes fall closed.

"I'll try," she allows, though she doubts she'll get very far. She still has her necklace gripped tight between her thumb and forefinger, tracing the tips of her fingers over the etching, and she imagines she could stay up all night, just lying here touching it.

But at some point, she must've fallen asleep, for the next thing she remembers is opening her eyes groggily and watching the world come into focus before her. The first thing she sees is the trashcan, resting to the side of her bed just below her face, and she feels a flood of relief that she's managed to go even a little while without throwing up. The second thing she sees is Kurt, still sitting in that chair against the wall, completely engrossed in something resting in his hands. When she blinks, her vision clears a little, and she can start to see what it is that he's looking at: a sheaf of papers, the backs of some glossy photos-

"What are you doing?" she asks, watching him nearly jump out of his chair at the sound of her voice. "Are you-" She catches sight of the back of a blue folder in his hands, the same color as the FBI's files, just before he snaps it shut. She can swear she saw a glimpse of some part of her tattooed body, too. "Are you seriously _working_ right now, Kurt?"

She doesn't even have to guess this time, she _knows_ she sees his cheeks color.

"I'm-passing the time," he excuses, quickly tucking the folder in the side of the chair, out of sight, like that might make her forget she'd seen it. "Just-trying to be productive."

She can't help but laugh, reaching over to her nightstand to take a sip of water. "Sure you are." She shakes her head, putting the glass back down before lying back in bed. She presses her cheek into the pillow as she stares at him, smiling a little. "You never give up on these things, do you?"

"Would you rather I sit in silence and stare at the wall while you sleep?"

"Well, no, but you could at least try to entertain yourself while you're imprisoning yourself here with me. Go downstairs, watch TV, watch a movie…" She gives up when he shakes his head. She knows he's about to remind her that he doesn't trust her here alone, and the more he says it, the more she's starting to believe it. She doesn't want to hear him say it again, because she knows he'll have to leave at some point, and she doesn't want to be helpless when he does. So she changes tacks, and tips her chin towards him. "Fine. Show me what you're working on, then."

"Jane, it's not-"

He gives up when she stares him down. With a sigh, he pulls out the file again. "Fine, here we go."

She pushes herself up in bed to see, and is just swinging her legs over the side when he rushes to his feet. "Hey! What do you think you're doing? Lay back down! I don't need you fainting again."

"Kurt, I'm just-"

"Jane, I'll come to you. Just _lie down_."

She watches with a mix of excitement and apprehension as he rounds her side of the bed and comes to a stop just a foot away from her. He places the file on top of the blankets, and she expects him lean over the side of the bed to explain things, but he surprises her by actually sitting down on the side of her bed, even leaning back against the pillows she isn't currently using. He's less than a foot from her, and she is very much aware of it.

"Kurt, I… I'm sick," she whispers. It's the only excuse she can get out.

He smiles a little, tapping his left arm just beneath the shoulder. "Hey, I got my shot. I think I'll take the chance."

"Fine," she gets out, feeling her traitorous cheeks heat. "Just… just don't come crying to me when you're puking all over the place. It'll be your own fault."

"Duly noted, Jane. Just make sure when _you_ feel the need to puke, you lean to the right and do it into the trashcan, and not on me on the left." He pulls the folder towards them then, and spreads out a few pages of notes as he passes her a handful of pictures, all close-up details of her abdomen. "I've been trying to decipher the writing here," he explains, drawing his finger against the image of the lines of text that cover her stomach. She tries not to think about the fact that they don't really need to look at the pictures; they have the real thing right here. She could just lift her shirt…

"I think it's English," Kurt continues, completely oblivious to where her mind is headed, "which is nice, because I can actually try to work on most of it myself without a translator…"

"So what did you get?"

She rifles through his notes, searching for meaning. But it's just a scribbling of errant words, guesses, and crossed-out theories.

"Well, that's the thing, I only got a couple words. The language is definitely English-same characters, same repetition of vowels and consonants-but it's all a little mixed up. The only actual English words I got were simple things, like _you, the, for, here,_ stuff like that. But most of the bigger words seem to be nonsensical, like they're-"

"Like they're some sort of cipher?"

Kurt catches her eye with a smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I was thinking they're rearranging some of the letters using some sort of letter code, because why else would they put a few paragraphs of nonsense on you? But then that made me wonder about the words I _could_ decipher. Why leave readable words on there if you're trying to hide your meaning?"

"Maybe it was just chance, that the code made those real words. All the rest don't say anything."

"Maybe," he allows. "But I think they're there purposefully. I think they might be some sort of key. The only options for understanding the rest of the text are either we find another clue that points us in the direction of a way to decipher it-and trust me, I've been looking- _or_ we're supposed to use this part of the text to unlock the rest of it."

"So you think the little words can help us figure out the bigger ones?"

"Yeah." He frowns, "Or at least, I hope so. I haven't gotten very far yet. My brain doesn't work as quickly as Patterson's computer." He pauses. "Or as quickly as Patterson's brain, come to think of it."

Jane smiles. "If it weren't the holidays, we could call her up and have her come take a look."

Kurt chuckles, "Yeah, but she's already out of state. Her family's in Oregon," he adds, reading the curious glance Jane gives him. "In the northwest."

Jane nods, thinking on that. She'd never paused to think about where Patterson, or any of the other members of her team, are from. She knows Kurt used to live in Pennsylvania as a kid, but the others…

"Tasha's a local, so she'll be in the city for the holidays," Kurt informs her, reading her mind. "And Reade's got some family in Connecticut, so I think he'll be over there for part of the break. But he and Patterson both said they'd be back for New Year's."

"New Year's?"

"The end of December, beginning of January," Kurt replies. "When the year turns over on the thirty-first, everyone celebrates: the end of the previous year, the start of the new one. You wish for better things and appreciate the good things you've got and…" He laughs a little, "Like any other holiday, mostly people just get drunk and make lots of promises they won't keep."

Jane smiles, remembering the couple of times Tasha and Patterson took her out to drink. Maybe it would be fun to go out for New Year's with them, too, since they'll be back.

"I meant to tell you, actually… We were thinking of having a little party, Sarah and I. Inviting some friends and some people from work over." He pauses, catching her eye. "I… I'd really like it if you could come, and, you know, celebrate the year with us."

She smiles. "That sounds nice, Kurt. I'd love to come."

He looks as about relieved now as he did after she said she liked the necklace, and she bites her tongue so she won't laugh. She had no idea her opinion meant that much to him. But it feels good anyway.

They lapse into silence for a while after that, with Kurt struggling to work through whatever code the text on her abdomen is hidden behind, and Jane doing little more than watching him. It hurts her head to focus on the tiny text and try to think about hidden meanings, and since her stomach's settled down some, she doesn't want to jinx anything by aggravating another part of her body.

She's dozing a little, or maybe just about to fall asleep, when the shrill ringing of his cell phone cuts through the air, making them both jump. A few pictures fall to the floor as Kurt gets quickly to his feet, and he grabs them and tosses them back onto the open file before rounding her bed to grab his phone out of his bag.

He takes one look at the display, another at his watch, and then groans. "Ah, shit," he mutters, putting a hand over his eyes. "I forgot."

Jane doesn't even have time to ask him what it is he's forgotten before he picks up the phone and presses it to his ear. There's barely a five seconds' delay before he's rushing to speak-

"No, Sarah, come on; I didn't forget _intentionally._ Why would I- No, yeah, I'll be there soon… No, you can wait for me at the apartment; I have to go there first to change, anyway. I'll be there in- _Sarah._ I'll be there. I'm not going to make us late _on_ _purpose_."

He catches Jane's eye and rolls his, and despite herself, despite the flu, despite not having any idea what he's talking to his sister about, Jane can't help but smile a bit at his annoyance, and that he's sharing it with her.

"Yeah, I know I did that when I was twelve, but believe it or not, that was twenty years ago and- _Yes_ ," he sighs heavily, closing his eyes. " _Yes_ , I'll be there soon. _Yes_ , I'm leaving now. Twenty minutes." He hangs up his phone, shaking his head as he ends the call and puts the device into his pants pocket.

"I'm sorry," he says a moment later, lifting his head to address Jane. "I have to go; it's Christmas Eve, and my sister wants us to go to church tonight. I would've mentioned this before, but I _did_ honestly forget… Not that Sarah would ever believe that…" He heaves a sigh as he walks back over to the far side of the bed and starts collecting the spilled contents of the file.

Jane watches him, quietly surprised. "I didn't know you were religious."

"Well, _I'm_ not," Kurt replies, slipping the last few photos in the file before closing it. "Sarah is. We were as kids; our parents raised us Catholic, but…" He shakes his head. "I, uh, I wandered, I guess. When I was a teenager." He looks down. "Never quite found a way back."

Jane doesn't bother asking why he drifted away from the faith, or why he never drifted back. She knows intuitively. And then she's back between them, just like that: Taylor. She's sucking the air out of the room, and not in the way Jane has come to prefer when she's alone with Kurt.

She takes a breath, forcing a smile on her face. "Well… Try to have a nice time, anyway. I'll, um, I'll see you next week, after the holidays? Or-at that party?"

To her surprise, Kurt frowns and shakes his head at her question as he makes his way around the far side of her bed. "No, don't be stupid, Jane. I'll come back and check on you after church."

"Kurt, no. Go spend time with your family-"

"I'll come back and check on you after church, Jane."

His tone is final, and for once, she doesn't mind giving in to his overruling. She smiles a little bit as she surrenders with a soft, "Okay, then. If you want."

She catches a flash of his smile, too, as he gathers the rest of his things. She watches from her bed as he slips the file back into his bag, and then shrugs into his heavy winter coat. He pats his pockets, silently checking for the essentials-keys, wallet, phone, badge. Apparently satisfied, he turns back to her. She sees that flash of worry, of compassion, just as their eyes meet, but he quickly hides it.

"All right," he says, doing his best to sound upbeat for both their sakes', "I'll see you in a couple hours, then?"

He makes the statement sound like a question, and she can't help but smile. Absentmindedly, she reaches a hand up to touch the small golden charm on her necklace. She rubs the little disc between her fingers, feeling the grooves of the indentation that spell out her name. Her identity.

"See you in a couple hours," she affirms quietly.

He nods once, and she can see it in his posture-he's about to step away, to head to the door-but something stops him. Before she can even start to ask, he's crossed the room and ended up right beside her bed. She stares up at him, frozen as he towers above her, her heart beating much too fast at his quick approach. When he reaches for her hand, she jumps in place, mind spinning. This is the closest they've ever been, at least while she's been fully aware of it. She knows he held her earlier, after she fainted, but she was so delirious then that it hardly counted. But now…

She watches him, hardly breathing, as he stands before her, above her. She watches him start to lean down towards her…

 _Is he going to kiss me?_ she thinks again, her mind spiraling much too quickly to insanity.

 _Don't be stupid,_ she thinks a second later, hating herself for even contemplating the mere idea. Again. _You're sick, and besides-_

But even her own thoughts fall silent as he ducks ever lower… She closes her eyes when his face is less than a foot from hers; there's no way she can watch him while he does this and also continue to breathe. In fact, she's having a hard time breathing as it is.

"Merry Christmas, Jane." She can feel his breath, warm against her face, as he comes ever closer, and she lies still beneath him, waiting-

He hesitates just a moment longer, enough for her to open her eyes and wonder, and their gazes meet for a just a second before he leans the rest of the way down and presses a kiss to her right cheek. It's light, quick, just a peck-but her face explodes in warmth anyway.

As he starts to pull back, she comes to terms with the fact that if he couldn't see her blush before, then he can definitely see it now-and there's nothing she can do about it. She's an open book with him. A red, helpless, open book. And God, she doesn't care anymore.

To her surprise, she's not the only one with a flushed face when they pull apart and tentatively catch each other's eyes once more. He does not blush as furiously as she does-and he has the advantage of facial hair to hide behind-but she can still see a pink tinge to his cheeks. She can't help it, she smiles as she watches him straighten up.

"Merry Christmas, Kurt," she tells him quietly, echoing his soft sentiment.

He nods, pretending to adjust the bag on his shoulder so he can look away and break the moment. She doesn't mind. After all, she thinks, feeling something besides nausea in her stomach for once today, it isn't as if he won't be coming back.

The warmth that floods her at such a thought is not a result of the fever coming back, she knows, and she watches him intently as he heads to the door. She expects him to walk right out, to put distance between them so they can both return to themselves, but he surprises her by pausing in the doorway, and looking back.

"You know, it would really be good if you tried to get some more sleep," he tells her. "That's usually the fastest way to recover with these things. Just rest and relax and… and let your body get back to normal."

Although she nods her assent, Jane thinks it'll likely take more than a couple hours of sleep for her body to get back to normal, especially after how he just choose to say goodbye, but she doesn't bother saying so aloud. She has spent weeks waiting for a sign like this, waiting for a hint that, no, things are _not_ exactly normal between them. She has been trying not to hope for things, or keep an eye out for a perfect solution to all the confusion she's been feeling when she's around him. But maybe all the movies and the commercials they play on TV and the cards they sell in drugstores are right. Maybe Christmas is a special time. It certainly seems to be to him, regardless of what his thoughts on the religious aspect of it are.

Coming back from her thoughts, Jane looks up, and is not at all surprised to find him still hesitating at her door, waiting for her to respond. She smiles a little as their eyes meet, and watches him do the same from across the room, his smile flickering anxiously. She likes this nervous side of him, she thinks. She likes that he's as unsure as she is. It's nice to have someone that finally understands what it's like in her head.

"Thank you for staying," she whispers, wanting to say so much more. "It was… It was really nice to have someone here today."

"No problem, Jane," he excuses. Quickly, he adds, "And I'll be back later, don't forget."

"No," she promises, "I won't forget."

x x x

 **Author's Note:** Happy holidays/Merry Christmas Bekah, and anyone else who reads this! I hope you're having a lovely holiday! :)


End file.
